


Swan Lake

by Fire_Sign



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: F/M, Masturbation, sad wanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-12
Updated: 2016-07-12
Packaged: 2018-07-23 15:11:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7468524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fire_Sign/pseuds/Fire_Sign
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Unable to sleep, Jack Robinson seeks relief in memories of his wife. Post 1x01, part of The SmitCoin Challenge.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Swan Lake

**Author's Note:**

> So The Phrack Slack Sunday rewatches started back at Cocaine Blues this week, and @afterdinnermix proposed [The SmitCoin Challenge](http://afterdinnerminx.tumblr.com/post/14%207238470714/the-smitcoin-chronicles-sunday-rewatch-open), a challenge to write a fic inspired by the rewatch episode of the week. Especially smut or knit fic. And, well, SOMEONE * _cough_ *me* _cough_ * was lamenting the lack of Sad Jack Wanking stories. I am aware this is a niche interest. But the point remains, it was needed.

Jack Robinson was restless. A new constable at the station, a murder, a Turkish bathhouse blown sky-high... the paperwork alone was enough to drive a man mad. Exhausting, but not enough movement for sleep to come easily. He shifted, considered making another mug of warm milk but couldn’t face firing the range this late. It was nights like these that he missed Rosie, the warmth of her body, the scent of her shampoo, the way the distance between them seemed to fall away in the dark. Beneath the covers his hand had found his cock, palmed it lightly at the memory.

Oh, hell, it wasn’t the gentlemanly thing to do but nobody needed to know, and it might relax him enough for sleep. He took himself in hand and imagined Rosie. The night after their wedding, he decided--the wedding night itself had been less than successful, the both of them falling asleep half-dressed--when she’d come to him in a nightgown made of silk that had outlined her form so beautifully. Fifteen years later, the image still made him hard. His hand moved languidly as he lost himself to the memories.

_A kiss to her shoulder, her hair so soft as he brushed it away._

_A breathy little exhale._

_Her hands fumbling over the buttons of his shirt._

_Burgundy velvet smooth against his hand._

Jack stopped, confused. Where had the velvet come from? No matter. He refixed the picture in his mind.

_He pulled away, to gaze into the face of his bride, saw their future in the tilt of her quiet smirk, the brightness of her blue eyes. He kissed her. Not the desperate messiness of stolen kisses before the wedding. This was a kiss of gravitas, of certainty._

_“We should dance, darling,” she said, “come with me.”_

_She led them to their parlour, still in her nightgown, and placed a record on the phonograph; a recording of Swan Lake, a ballet they had attended with her parents when they were courting. She had leant into him during the darkness of the performance, to whisper information against his ear; a boy from Richmond understood nothing of the art. It had been beautiful though; so precise, so longing. And now his Rosie was in their parlour, swaying to the music and begging him to touch._

_He closed the distance, slid a hand around her waist, felt the tango music thrum through his body._

Tango? Jack paused his ministrations, growing more desperate, and gave his head a shake. Clearly the performance he’d caught at the Andrews’ house had slipped into his subconscious. It had been… sensual. Intimate. Not intended for the likes of a police inspector there on official business. Swan Lake, that was the point. Rosie.   

_Unlacing her nightgown from behind, watching it pool to the floor smoothly._

_Her gasping shudder, his hesitance, the moan as she pleaded for him to touch her._

_The fullness of her breast in his hand._

His stroking gained intensity, a need rather than an idle thought.

_His fingers trailing downward, slipping into her curls, exploring so gently._

_“Harder, Jack.”_

_Spinning her around, running his hand down her thighs, lifting her to carry her to their bed._

_The reveal of stocking tops beneath a skirt._

No. Rosie. He needed to focus on his wife, not some overseen dance like a common voyeur.

_The scent of her arousal, the tang of her against his tongue._

_Her softly open smile as she encouraged him to sit on the edge of the bed, sinking to her knees before him, taking him in her mouth--hesitant at first, so hesitant he wanted to tell her no but it had felt so good and she murmured such encouragements when she pulled away._

Harder. Faster. His release building, imminent, on the edge of relief but a moment longer. Just a moment.

_Sinking into her, hot and wet, head resting in the crook of her shoulder, wanting to stay there forever but needing to move._

_Her breathing, hard and laboured until the pitch changed, reaching impossibly high as he slipped a hand between them, pressed that tender spot that brought her such pleasure._

_A gasp._

There, finally. He let go, hips thrusting off the bed as he came.

_Rosie trembling beneath him, crying out his name, her muscles contracting around him._

_He looked to her face, intending to kiss her, to smooth her long chestnut hair, tangle his fingers in it and pull her ever closer._

_His gaze was met with knowing green eyes, red-painted lips curling in almost feline contentment._

Well, shit.


End file.
